


where the watermelons grow

by kathikon



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: (only a little), Brad Deserves Happiness, Canon Compliant, Episode: s01e07 Bomb in the Garden, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Tenderness, Wall Sex, a little bit sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25605118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathikon/pseuds/kathikon
Summary: “Brad.” Nate’s nails scratched across his scalp, heartbeat slow and steady between his ribs. It had been a long time since anyone had said his name like that, soft and gentle like a lover would. "Thank you."And Brad, hopeless (helpless) romantic that he was somewhere deep on the inside, just leaned into it, eyes closed and breathed him in.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Comments: 13
Kudos: 82





	where the watermelons grow

**Author's Note:**

> _take me down, to where the watermelons grow  
>  this might be dumb, but i wouldn’t know  
> just hold my hand, put on a show  
> we’ve got all summer, so we can take it slow_
> 
> No disrespect/assumptions are being made about any real people. This is a work of fiction based on the HBO Miniseries starring Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others.

Brad finally kissed Nate tucked into a storage room in a cigarette factory in Baghdad.

It wasn’t anything neat or pretty or good, because their teeth clacked together hard enough to make Brad’s head hurt for a second when Nate’s hands gripped his biceps hard enough to bruise through his BDUs.

Nate's lips were soft and chapped against his, even when he licked into Brad’s mouth, and it all devolved into something wet and hot and _hungry_. Like they were starving for this, for touch, for something between them that was substantial in a way that the fleeting touches and knowing glances behind a Humvee weren’t.

Of all the things that he’d experienced in his life, somehow that was the thing that surprised Brad the most— Nate Fick kissed like he was dying, like he was running out of time, a wet smear of mouth and tongue that was more urgent than good and good because it was so urgent.

Later, bracing his back against the wall while Brad rocked up against him in the dark, breathing promises against Nate’s collarbone in a reverent tone, he turned, grinning in the meagre scraps of light that poured in along the bottom of the doorframe, teeth gleaming in his pale face. Brad’s heart ached at the look, the dark bags under Fick’s eyes, the exhaustion there that he couldn’t do anything about, that he didn’t know how to do anything about.

So instead he curled forward, fingers sinking bruises into those thin hips, the jut of bone under thin skin, and kissed Nate frantically as the officer wrapped his legs around Brad’s waist, clutching at his shoulders.

This was going to be the death of him now that he knew— knew that Nate shook like he had a fever when Brad opened him up with his fingers, how sweet he sounded when he moaned, head tipped back against the cool concrete wall, the way he worried his full lower lip between his teeth when he was trying to stay quiet.

“Brad,” Nate gasped into his cheek, breath hot and wet against sweat-slicked skin. “Colbert.” His voice was so tender that Brad felt himself fall in love all over again, even as Nate’s fingers scratched over the fine hairs at the back of his skull, moaning in a shaky, warbling noise. “Brad, _Brad,”_ he panted, like a mantra, reverent and pleading and devoted, no reasons now, just Brad’s name spilling out of him with each lazy roll of their hips against each other. Brad’s eyes were closed but he could see Nate just fine, a face he'd seen and loved, sleeping and waking for the past year.

He wished they could stay like this, wrapped up in each other's arms, breathing in each other’s air.

Brad’s mouth tore away from Nate’s to plaster itself against his ear and he muttered, "C'mon, Nate, wanna feel you, come on…"

" _Brad_." One last gasp and then he was obeying Brad in this, same as Brad obeyed Nate in everything; falling apart, spurting hot and thick into Brad’s hand and clenching tight around the cock inside him, enough for them both to see stars embossed on the back of their eyelids. Brad’s thighs and arms and back ached as Nate shuddered in his arms, one hand clawing marks into the meat of Brad’s shoulder, the other scrabbling against the wall.

Brad wasn’t even really fucking him now, just grinding himself deeper and deeper and deeper, until it felt like they weren’t ever coming apart. The thought made Brad choke and laugh into warm skin before he made a soft, bitten off noise and came, shoved up tight right against Nate’s chest. 

They stayed like that until Brad’s arms shook too much to keep holding Nate up and he eased them both to the ground before pulling out, drawing a low noise from Nate as the younger of the two turned his face into his arm, chest heaving.  
Brad wondered, briefly, what he’d look like in the golden hour light that poured through Brad’s bedroom window in the evening, if he flushed down his chest, if he’d let Brad fuck him gently, in a real bed, a million miles away from Iraq and the emptiness that’s filled them both here.

He kneeled there for a moment, between Nate’s spread legs, knuckles braced on the cool concrete on either side of the officer’s hips.

He didn’t expect the brush of Nate’s fingers along his outstretched arm, the back of his hand, calloused and dry like everything was out here. He didn’t expect Nate’s hand to curl over his, linking their fingers together and holding.

Just holding.

“God damn it, Fick,” he managed finally, rubbing his face into the crook of his elbow, swallowing back words he’d probably regret, eyes stinging.

Nate lifted his head a little, the whites of his eyes nearly glowing. “Brad— are you crying?”

Brad made a hurt sound in his throat, one that only sounded a little bit like a laugh. “No. I’m not crying.” He let go of Nate’s hand, drawing back into his own space, managing to get to his feet, pulling his underwear and uniform pants back up around his hips.

It gave him something to do with his hands and kept him from having to look at Nate, still lying on the floor all debauched and spread out like an offering.

He wanted to stay, crawl back between those thighs and try to tell Nate all the things that he couldn’t say with words.

"It's pretty late," Brad said, holding the sides of his belt in his fingers and debating whether it was worth it to buckle it back up. "Someone’ll be looking for us sooner or later.”

Nate blinked a few times, surprised before he shrugged, nonchalant.  
“Mike’s got everyone busy,” he breathed, eyes soft as he wiggled his boxers back up. “Relax for a minute, Sergeant— that’s an order."

Brad smiled, easing himself down to lay across Nate in the cramped space, head on his chest. “Yes sir.”

“Brad.” Nate’s nails scratched across his scalp, heartbeat slow and steady between his ribs. It had been a long time since anyone had said his name like that, soft and gentle like a lover would. He leaned in and kissed Brad like that too, like how he would have kissed a girlfriend a lifetime ago, like Brad was his, like they weren't in an active warzone, like if this came out, they wouldn’t have to wave their careers goodbye. "Thank you." 

And Brad, hopeless (helpless) romantic that he was somewhere deep on the inside, just leaned into it, eyes closed and breathed him in.

**Author's Note:**

> title and beginning note comes from my half-written album, _where the watermelons grow_
> 
> this might be part 1 of a rewritten version of ballad of a dove, but for now, it can be read as a standalone or as part of that series (though there are contradictions between the two)


End file.
